Confusion: The Mind of an American
by Agent Midnight
Summary: Companion fic to Confusion: Observing the Perfect Soldier-- Heero POV, focuses on Duo. I'm not bashing Americans, I am one. ^_^


A blood curdling scream flies from our shared bedroom, dancing across the walls to reach me... in the kitchen... downstairs... at the other end of the house. Before I really understand what I'm doing, I'm standing outside of the bedroom door, my gun drawn, a metal pot on top of my head...  
  
... for extra protection. Wink wink.  
  
The sole of my steel-toed boots connect with the door, sending it flying inward to slam against the inner wall. By this time, I'm moving through the doorway, bringing the gun up to my chest and getting ready to aim it in to scan the perimeters of the room. The door flies back and smacks me directly in the face, some of the pain blocked because of the cooking pot.  
  
Curse you, Strength!  
  
I rub my nose and finally drag my eyes up to stare into the room.  
  
Duo's nasty shoes connect with clean sheets continually as he leaps on the bed, over and over and over and over...  
  
The music blaring from our stereo system is painfully loud and horribly written. I twitch when I notice he's moved the stereo from the dresser over to his nightstand, the dummy holding one of the speakers in his hands, directly against his ear as he screams along with the music.  
  
No wonder he can't hear me.  
  
What seriously worries me (besides him needing a hearing aid before age nineteen) is his wild rope of hair, flying precariously close to the spinning blades of the ceiling fan. Up, and then down. Up, and then down. His jumping grows higher, his braid dancing inbetween the blades.   
  
Good God.  
  
I saunter over to the closet and pull our yellow unbrella off the top shelf, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. I turn the umbrella handle-side up and start jumping with Duo, trying to catch his braid in the hook. He completely ignores me as he screams out forty-two cuss words in a row.  
  
No kidding, either. I counted.  
  
I almost hook some of his braid, when he shrieks and it throws me off balance. He suddenly realizes I'm there, and spins quickly on the bed, the speaker pointed at the window.  
  
The window cracks and finally smashes under the harsh treatment.  
  
Duo grins and continues to jump, beaming at me.  
  
Stopping my leaping fest, I simply watch with a detached sense of dread.  
  
His braid kicks upward and I see the edge get caught around one of the white blades, starting to tug it into motion. Duo's weight comes down on the bed again and even through the rancid scream of the music, I hear the snapping and the loud crunch as the middle caves in and Duo flies towards the foot of the bed where I stand... face first.  
  
His head misses the wood by two inches as the rest of the bed splits in half and causes his feet to touch some part of the ground.  
  
That's the fourth bed in two days.  
  
I grab his ear and tug him out of the bedroom, closing the door and yanking him down the hallway to get away from the racket.  
  
Sure. I could have turned the damn thing off, but I didn't think about that.  
  
His braid is nice and safe, nibbling on my ankle.  
  
Don't ask.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
He's choked ninety-two times on french fries alone.  
  
Sad, isn't it?  
  
Our #4 house rule: Don't eat American food alone (Duo).  
  
His #4 house rule for me: Let me die happy while in stages of intimate joining with fast food.  
  
Posted right on the fridge, in those stupid little alphabet magnet letters he bought from the store. He wasted $112.00 on plastic magnets! Come on... what possessed him to do such a stupid thing? The whole surface of the damn fridge is covered with colorful A's, and... B's, and... C's.  
  
At one time, we even ran out of some letter so he had to compromise.  
  
"Zeeio, at whore--deck boon."  
  
Heero, at store--back soon.  
  
He's choked twelve times on the letter "E".  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
I walk into the living room and come to a rest in the doorway, hearing a squishing noise off to the side. I'm almost terrified to look over and discover what it is.  
  
With perfectly good reason, too.  
  
When I turn my head to take in a potentially dangerous situation, I see Duo spreading white stuff on the walls, pressing his shoe against the substance to see if it would stick. I freeze right where I'm standing as I squint my eyes to stare at the white substance, praying to every god that isn't what I think it is. There's a soft tune floating from... our stereo system.  
  
"Dammit, Duo. Stop moving the stereo."  
  
On topic...  
  
"What the Hell are you doing?"  
  
He turns sparkling, puppy-dog eyes to lock with mine, his lips curving in an innocent smile that would suit the most spectacular ange-  
  
I walk over and hit the stereo, the power shutting off and blocking the voices of the friendly caller out. I don't need to know about some freak's love life, let alone how their mate looks when wanting to get some.  
  
"Heero, I'm gluing my shoes to the wall!"  
  
Ah. Respiration restored. Glue.  
  
"W-"  
  
"It's genius!"  
  
"W-"  
  
"Brilliant!"  
  
"W-"  
  
"I will be the ruler of all that is good in the world of blueberries and strawberry pies with candy corn sprinkled on the top and daises around the bowl of potato chips!"  
  
???????  
  
"I'm going to reach a new level of meditation, Heero!!"  
  
???  
  
"Once I get these shoes to stick, I'll be able to stand on the wall and reach a missionary meditation state of mind!"  
  
I cough.  
  
"And Heero. I could glue your shoes right-" He points to the place above his shoes, "-here so you can join me in the missionary position."  
  
I open my mouth-  
  
"-Because everyone knows you love your missions."  
  
I leave the room as he begins to make rather obscene gestures with his arms, rolling my eyes.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
Let's say... hypothetically, you walk into the dining room and see your boyfriend rollerblading naked...  
  
"Where ya going, Heero?"  
  
Even if you've seen them naked before, you just don't want to see that.  
  
"Aww, come on! Join me!"  
  
Even worse: Your naked boyfriend chasing you on rollerblades as you try to escape from mental embarrassment.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
Nothing's worse on Sundays than having to watch horror movies with Duo until ungodly hours of the night. Don't get me wrong, the movies isn't what bothers me... it's him quoting along with every single movie. From Sandman to Shining, it's all pretty bad because he can't hit any of the actor's voices. So, suddenly, Quatre's voice is put in the Shining and ruins the whole atmosphere.  
  
"Could you please put down the bat, Wendy? Kindly put the bat down."  
  
No, no. I stand corrected.  
  
Nothing's worse than having to watch musicals with Duo and having to participate in the reenactments dressed in sheets and hubcaps.  
  
"..just a sweet transvestite.."  
  
Oh, kill me now.  
  
~-~-~-~-~  
  
"I love you!"  
  
Cringe.  
  
"I honestly love you!"  
  
Have I mentioned his singing voice is four notches away from being in the same boundary as a old, wheezing grandmother?  
  
~-~-~-~-~-  
  
"Heero, grab your cactus and let's get rolling!"  
  
"Heero, the sushi has ears. Shhhh!"  
  
"Heero, don't move. Rabid snake... in my pants!"  
  
He is so not funny.  
  
But, something tells him he is. Something wants him to make a fool of himself.  
  
I should dismiss this concern right now.  
  
The mind of an American: Spontaneously unhumorous. 


End file.
